


The Apostles' Creed

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Barebacking, Hero Worship, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-04
Updated: 2009-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:19:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run from Danko's men, Sylar and Luke rest, consumed by the oppressive heat of rural Mexico. Luke takes advantage of Sylar's uncharacteristic stillness to express the love, obsession and gratitude he could never say aloud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Apostles' Creed

**Author's Note:**

> Luke is 17.

"It's too hot," Sylar huffs, irritable, tired, but not quite pushing him away. And maybe Sylar's right. Their backs and necks are clammy hot with sweat; the salt of their skin tinges the air, unmistakeably, with that scent that Luke loves so much, that scent that is uniquely _them_. The hair under his arms, the creases of his groin; even without his boxers, his body is slick with the suffocating heat.

Sylar's body is glistening too. The water of the shower mingles with his sweat, the hair between his legs and spanning over his chest are sodden masses of pitch back curls. He pushes his head back to the pillows, groaning his discomfort as his spine arches and relaxes. He's splayed wide, arms reaching out from his sides, thighs spread as if every part of him craves to be as far away as possible from the rest. His palms are up and his belly bared, groin utterly unprotected, with his flaccid cock exposed. His chin tips back, neck extended and at the sight, Luke's bottom lip catches between his teeth, a half bitten back moan tumbling from his lips.

It is hot, maybe too hot for this, but that isn't what Sylar means. He's exhausted to the point of shattering, in need of sleep that never comes; being in Mexico makes him toss and turn with nightmares that Luke doesn't understand. He's constantly on edge, waiting, anticipating, wary of Danko's men and those thoughts that haunt him, head always turned to keep watch over his shoulder. He's been strong, so strong for Luke and Luke knows deep down he wants to fight, to face Danko in DC, on Danko's turf and beat him there, but he's not alone now anymore, and the risks he takes are Luke's risks too. So, they run though Sylar hates it, through jungles blistering hot like hell.

They run to keep Luke safe.

And now, Luke thinks Sylar's close to breaking and it's his turn to keep Sylar safe, to make good on the trust that's put in him when Sylar lies above the garish sheets, so vulnerable like this. Luke tilts his chin, presses just his lips to Sylar's pulse point, the barest brush of teeth to a jugular that only he can get so close to. He licks the salt from Sylar's skin, tongue dragging up over the sandpaper scratch of his stubble, the wet rasp complimented by Sylar's breathy, near silent sigh. And against his thigh, he feels Sylar's cock as it rises to close the gap between them, still mostly soft but heavy now, so that their bodies touch at two points only: lips and groin.

Luke wants to say, "I'll take care of you," but Sylar's pride won't accept that, so instead he whispers, "I'll do all the work," in Sylar's ear, says it like a challenge, a dare he knows Sylar can't refuse.

He looks at Luke through slitted eyes, heavy lidded with the heat, blinking away a trickle of sweat that wets the thick line of his lashes. Dark pupils stare at Luke, and though the sound he makes---raw, guttural, dismissive---is neither a yes nor a no, the tip of his tongue drags along his full but chapped bottom lip and Luke knows that he wants this. He laps at the sweat that glistens in the dip between Sylar's chin and mouth, stubble prickling at his flesh. Their lips touch, it's not a kiss, just a breath they share and then, Sylar's eyes flutter shut.

Luke pulls back completely, shuffles down the bed. He kneels like a penitent between Sylar's thighs. Palms flat to the bed on either side of Sylar's hips, their skin doesn't touch but for Luke's mouth on Sylar's cock, drawing lazy patterns up his length until he's fully hard. His sighs fall sweetly on spit damp skin, whispered like a prayer; he wants to say, "I love you, Sylar" but that isn't right. Love is nowhere close to what it is that's burning in his chest, wound so tight around his heart it echoes with every beat through his quaking body, his eyes fever-bright with adoration; Sylar is his god, his heaven, earth and hell. Luke's never put much stock in church, figures any gods there are must hate him, but with Sylar on his back before him, Luke wonders if this is what it's like to find the new Messiah.

He worships Sylar's body with tiny licks, lips and teeth and tongue alone; anything more seems too demanding, too much like asking to be pushed away. There's not an inch of skin that's unattended, shaft and crown and sac; he drags his nose through Sylar's pubes breathing in his scent. And when he tastes pre-come on his tongue, salty-bitter, tart, it's a blessing that Sylar gives to him alone, a moment of his immortality that only Luke's allowed to share. He shudders as he swallows, desperate, so desperate not to disappoint, because this is Sylar's grace to him, the only salvation he'll ever find.

He slides a hand under the curve of Sylar's ass, palm cupped and pushing up to lift him. And Luke thinks that in another life he must have been better than he is now, because Sylar huffs a sigh, forearms braced against the mattress, rising off the sheets. Luke crawls up the bed to drag a pillow down, careful not to let their bodies touch but for where he leaves a sticky trail on Sylar's abs; even with a space between them, it's hot enough to sear.

Sylar's shoulders tremble; his head falls back, hair, downy-soft and drying, a dark shock against the sheets. His clavicles glisten in the afternoon light, sweat welling in pools at the hollows of his throat. Luke's eyes follow his Adam's apple as it bobs, his parched swallows _needy_ in a way that that he knows Sylar abhors to let slip. He twists his neck, faces Luke as he hovers over his chest, chin jutted out just short of begging for a kiss. And right now, there's nothing in this world, or the next if it exists, that Luke wouldn't give to Sylar, lay before his feet. So, he wets his lips with a sweep of his tongue, presses his damp mouth to Sylar's dry one, and revives him with a kiss. It's slow and languorous, achingly fond, feels so much like affection that Luke's sure his soul's teased from his core with every tender curl of Sylar's tongue behind his teeth.

They moan, softly, so softly but together as they break apart. Luke props the pillow under Sylar's hips, watching Sylar watching him as his body curves, taut in an exquisite arc, his straining muscles supple. Luke strokes his hands up Sylar's inner thighs, thumbs teasing at the apex between his legs. He drags his teeth over the ridge of his hips, nuzzles lower, falls over that ledge and follows the seam of his groin to the cleft of his ass. His tongue leaves stuttering trails, a haphazard path in spit and kisses to find his way back.

Sylar's legs spread further; his hips angle up. Luke licks, ardent, avid, worshipful, at that swathe of skin where Sylar's body cleaves together. And here, Sylar's scent is stronger, an earthy musk trapped between his cheeks that mingles with the acerbic taste of soap, not quite rinsed away. His body is so tender, here, in this private place that's solely Luke's, flesh puckered, pink as new. So many words press at his lips, pretty, gorgeous, _mine_, and he takes that praise he'll speak aloud, turns it into ravishing, biting kisses that he sucks from hole to sac. Nose crushed to Sylar's taint, chin against the bed, he laves mesmerising spirals with his tongue; under his attentions, Sylar is a boneless, sprawling mess.

Sylar shivers as he pulls away, the overwhelming heat forgotten, and it's Luke's touch alone, a soothing stroke along his flanks that calms him. He sucks his fingers 'til they're dripping wet and then sucks some more, so careful not to hurt, even though Sylar heals. He never whimpers, "Can I top?" never begs in a fitful rush of words, "Let me be inside you." He knows that there're some things in this life they _need_ so much that they might die in the asking.

Instead, he presses one finger to Sylar's hole with pressure that's almost enough to breach him, watches Sylar face and listens, for any moan or sigh or cry that might mean no. And when it doesn't come, never comes, he sinks inside in one smooth arc and works him open. Two fingers, three, held fast deep within him, a pinkening flush spread down his chest and rising in his cheeks. As Sylar's hips strain towards him, cock jerking closer, Luke thinks that this must be what it's like to have a god at his mercy, begging on his knees.

He spits crudely on his palm, slicks his cock, holding Sylar's gaze as he rubs himself against him, pre-come spreading on his hole. He works his cock in as steadily as he did his finger, slow enough to want to scream but silky-smooth and unrelenting; Sylar's face is a study in gasping ecstasy. And when he's settled, Sylar stretched so tight, near too-tight, around him, the only places that they touch are hips and thighs and groin. Sylar's weight is on his shoulders, arms still wide-splayed, twitching fingers all that have moved in the space of time since they started; Luke sits up on his knees, Sylar's ass securely in his lap, and they rock their hips in time, a lazy, easy way of making love when steeped in so much bone-melting heat.

And as the air between them grows hotter still with grunts and groans and swollen flesh, Luke slides his hand through the gathering sweat that puddles on Sylar's belly. He strokes Sylar's cock with the cadence of a liturgy, every up and down a wordless expression of his devotion.

"Let me hear you," he finally rasps, one single, solitary concession begged for himself.

And Sylar seems to know how he aches for _wanting_ because as his body stills, cock rigid-stiff in Luke's fist, he breaths, "_Luke_," as he comes.

Luke stutters, pressed in deep, as deep as he can go, their bodies as close to being one as they will ever be. He comes to the sound of his name on Sylar's lips, his tongue curling 'round the consonants like absolution. And in that moment when Sylar's dark, sated eyes meet his, Luke's immortal too.


End file.
